


The Fourth Element

by BaronessEmma



Series: Land Where They May [3]
Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Developing Relationship, F/M, Humor, Love at First Sight, Romance-ish, Spring Break, sort of a first date
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-12
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-08-08 06:40:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7747072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BaronessEmma/pseuds/BaronessEmma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spock never knew how elegantly a human could articulate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ordered

_"Earth ~ Air ~ Fire ~ Water ~ Aether_

_All these exist in their own space, apart,_

_Trying ever to stay within their right realm."_

\- From "Translations of Vulcan Poetry" by Nyota Uhura

* * *

=/\=

* * *

**The Fourth Element**

"Sir, I fail to see the purpose of an exercise such as this."

"Spock, you'd be the perfect chaperon!"

"Perhaps," Spock tilted his head a fraction and regarded his friend and superior, "And yet precisely seventy-eight seconds ago you mentioned that I would also be able to "have fun" and "be myself" - are not the two roles mutually incompatible?"

"Not for you," Christopher Pike sighed, "And let's face it, son, there's no other way you'd _ever_ participate with Spring Break."

"You are correct, Sir, as I did not do so as a cadet, there is no reason for me to begin the practice as an instructor."

"On the contrary, there is _every_ reason. . . look. . ." Chris leaned forward, talking to his half-Vulcan protege in a kind and very human tone, "These kids need a chaperon, and it can't be me - I'm getting too old for three-day benders and cruising the beaches of Malibu. . ." he paused for a split second and half smirked, "Well, maybe not _entirely_ too old, but you know I can't go out with these kids - I'd just make them uncomfortable and they wouldn't loosen up, and that would ruin the whole point of Spring Break."

"And it is your opinion that if I accompany them, I will not make them uncomfortable?"

Pike rubbed his eyes and prepared to give it up and just make his request an order, "Nearly every other instructor has plans for the week, Spock, and those who don't are ones I wouldn't trust anywhere near a group of my suddenly-off-the-leash, cream-of-the-crop cadets. _You_ , I trust, and you're young enough and human enough and Vulcan enough to survive a trip to the beach with fifteen freshmen on their first break in months. Understand now?"

"Inevitably, sir."

If Pike hadn't already known better, he would have said that the younger man wilted just a tiny bit.

"And cheer up," Chris grinned, "This isn't me punishing you, you know - I really do want you to have fun and be yourself for a while."

"As I believe I said, sir, the two concepts are mutually incompatible."

"And as I've been trying to tell you for over four years - that's a load of Vulcan bull."

"Yes sir. . ."

"Pack light, Spock, Malibu is warm this time of year."


	2. Earth

_"Well, it is Earth with me; silence resumes her reign."_

\- Robert Browning

* * *

=/\=

* * *

**Earth**

It seemed there was nowhere quiet anymore.

Instead of reserving expensive transporter tickets for the trip, Spock had opted to rent a hoverbus and pilot it himself. It had been the wiser choice financially, but given the cadets' behavior during the three hour journey, he was in some doubt as to whether it had been the wiser choice psychologically.

He was not at all sure _why_ there should be almost one hundred bottles of beer on any wall, anywhere, at any time, or why any group of people should feel it necessary to sing about them at length, but the cadets left him in no doubt that somewhere, there was indeed such a place, and that they wished to sing about it for a very long time indeed.

He was also quite undecided as to who or what a "Spongbob Squarepants" was, but apparently this entity also had a theme song that was quite popular.

He temporarily blocked all memory of the several minutes that had been full of flying bits of food and moist paper - the one time he had verbally and physically intervened in the activities in the rear of the hoverbus - as it had caused him no little confusion and some emotional distress, and he would have to meditate on it at a later time.

After that there had been several most noisy card games, and he could smell the covert consumption of something alcoholic.

He was not the only non-human on this journey, but for most of it he was entirely convinced he was the only sane one.

The trip took almost exactly three hours, but for Spock, it was interminable.

When at last they reached the hostelry they had reserved rooms at for the duration of their stay, he spent considerable time organizing their room assignments and belongings in a fashion which would allow for the most optimal functionality and give him the greatest accessibility possible to them, for he was quite certain that the rooms would be only be minimally used for their intended purpose, and likely used a great deal for _extremely_ inappropriate activities.

He made absolutely certain that his own private room was at least two levels above the floor theirs was on. He might _know_ what was likely to occur, but he had no desire to listen to it.

Finally everything was in order, and he quite solemnly asked for a consensus on the next planned activity.

He managed to keep his reactions in check when fifteen boisterous and by now very frustrated cadets shouted "BEACH!" a great deal louder than he had anticipated.

Thankfully, all the girls retired to one room to change into their beach wear, and the boys were speedily in nothing but boxer shorts and t-shirts - garments with which Spock was more than familiar, and thus there was little or no reason for discomfort.

If he ignored what they were saying, of course. . .

" _Beaches_!" one particularly excitable cadet was intimating, "With _California_ girls on them! Maaaaan you should see. . ."

The rest of the statement was lost in a great rush of impatient chatter.

"The waves on this one place around here get to be 20 meters high! Can you imagine riding something like that? The biggest I've seen were in Hawaii and there they only. . ."

"I hear there's a restaurant where you can get something called a "Galaxy hamburger" with each ingredient coming from a different major planet in the. . ."

"Tonight we HAVE to go to the Boardwalk and see the. . ."

At this point the girls came back in again, and the conversation became even more trivial and incoherent. One very bouncy Orion girl came up to Spock and attempted to engage him in the banal discussion.

"You know every year they have a sand castle building contest here? Some of them are twelve feet high, and. . ."

"I am familiar with the concept of sand, Cadet," he said, almost brusquely, "Vulcan is a desert planet."

That remark also left no one present in doubt of his complete understanding of the concept of "dry" humor, and mercifully, this meant that during the short walk to the beachfront, they left him in peace for almost twenty minutes.

It was the second most pleasant twenty minutes he was to experience for the next seven days.


	3. Air

" _What light is to the eyes - What air is to the lungs - What love is to the heart - Liberty is to the soul of man._ "

\- Robert Green Ingersoll

* * *

=/\=

* * *

**Air**

The scent of the ocean had always been fascinating to him.

The first time he had seen the Pacific (a singularly illogical name, if ever he had heard one) he had been mostly prepared for the size, the motion, the sound, the temperature - in fact he had been told so much, and had researched so thoroughly about Earth's oceans that he had even anticipated the sheer undeniable impressiveness of the experience. The ocean was so big, so forceful a presence, such a very great part of the Terran psyche, that it was very nearly exaggeration-proof. He admitted that he approved of that aspect of it. Humans were forever exaggerating, and it was refreshing to come across something that seemed immune to this tendency.

But - oddly, it seemed to him - _no one_ had taken the time to tell him about the _smell_. . .

Not that he disliked the scent. . . but it _fascinated_ him. Air as fresh as the newborn wind, yet as ancient as the minerals the made up the bones of Earth - Air that could carry messages with all its layered subtlety - Air that fairly tingled of myths and legends - Air that had no other name but _fresh_ , yet carried an overpowering taint of age - wisdom. . . power. . . death. . .

After the first moment he had smelled the ocean, he never again questioned the Terran stories of those who "had the sea in their blood" and had been compelled to go spend their lives roaming and working and trading and dying upon it.

For any race that had minimal control of its emotions, he freely admitted, this uniquely Terran thing called "The Ocean" could very obviously be a taskmaster indeed.

He spread out a bamboo-backed cloth mat upon the sand, unfolded a low chair onto the mat, and settled himself down to watch his charges interact with this wonder they so cavalierly called "the beach".

If Christopher Pike had been right in one thing, it was this - he could and would be an adequate chaperon in every way that counted. He set his mind to tracking every one of the cadets in his care, essentially managing to keep "half an eye" on each one of the fifteen of them.

Gaila, the Orion girl, was speedily involved in a game of beach volleyball, and four other cadets also chose this activity, scattering themselves around the prefabricated courts, and more often than not, easily joining in on games already in progress.

Five of the boys and two of the girls had already rented surfing gear, and after a good deal of what Spock could only identify as insults and argument (but what Christopher had confidently assured him was called "good-natured ribbing") Cadets Kirk and Sulu lead the charge towards the water. Spock watched them for eight minutes longer than he had the ones who had gone to the volleyball courts, for this was a far more dangerous and random activity. When it became clear that all of them were, if not proficient, then at least enjoying the mistakes they made, he shifted them to the periphery of his attention, though he would be alert to any accidents.

Two more of the girls had settled not far away, and were applying lotion of some sort and spreading out their belongings on their own mats. Spock nodded to himself. Illogical, but a perfectly safe activity, if one did not count sunburn as a danger.

That was fourteen accounted for. There was one cadet missing. . .

Quickly replaying the last several minutes in his mind, he belatedly noticed that Cadet Uhura had quietly slipped away from the throng, and had gone several dozen meters to the south, behind a natural curve in the land. She had been walking alone, calmly, with purpose, and had been carrying her belongings.

Again Spock nodded to himself. Inadvisable, perhaps, but acceptable nonetheless. If he saw or heard nothing from her direction in one hour, he would investigate, but not before then.

Then, his attention divided into these varying places, he focused the rest of his mind on the PADD he had brought. No doubt all of the cadets would assume that he had brought essays to grade, and technical journals for his amusement - and _had_ done these things - but for a moment he allowed himself to contemplate their universal shock if they had known that what he was reading at that moment was, in truth, a novel. Of Terran origin, no less. It caused him no little personal gratification to note that _did_ , in actual solid fact, enjoy the writings of Isaac Asimov, and he would remember to thank Christopher for introducing him to these classics.

Precisely eleven and a half pages into "Foundation and Empire" an alarm went off in Spock's mind.

Swiftly laying aside the PADD he pulled off his shirt, long pants and half boots, and in only his swimming trunks he made a beeline for the water.

Waves came asymmetrically, but quite predictably, and unfortunately for Cadet Allerson, he had failed to predict the timing of one wave and had been caught in a riptide.

Having been trained in the skill of swimming by Starfleet, having taken their lifeguard and first aid courses, and having applied Vulcan strength and agility to that training, it was a matter of seventy-two seconds for Spock to pull the waterlogged but only slightly injured cadet to shore.

Most of the rest of his charges then gathered around most unhelpfully while he lifted the half-conscious young man onto the sand, and it was not until Cadet McCoy began elbowing his way through them - announcing the presence of a doctor, and demanding room to work - that Spock was able to ascertain Allerson's state.

"He is in some shock, doctor, but he is not otherwise hurt," he said, in his usual matter-of-fact tone.

"Yes," McCoy's answer was clipped, but he closed his tricorder and gave Allerson a few sharp pounds on the back. The young man brought up the water that he had inadvertently swallowed, and took a few deep breaths in between coughing.

Spock allowed McCoy and Sulu to escort Allerson back to the area with their towels, because even in an emergency situation, for him any skin-to-skin contact was disorienting and undesirable. Yet he stayed close by, until McCoy had settled the young man comfortably down, and insisted on observing him for half an hour at least. Spock nodded at this last, approvingly, and lifted his own towel to dry off his hair and ears. . .

Wait. . . that was a towel around his shoulders. When had it gotten there?

He looked at his nearby seating arrangements, and sure enough, one of the two towels he had left beside his chair had been taken up by someone, and draped around his shoulders while his attention had been focused on Allerson.

Who. . . ?

 _Irrelevant._ He chided himself.

But. . . _who_?

_Illogical. This is unnecessary curiosity._

He was again raising a corner of the towel to dry his face when he caught it - just the merest whiff of something on the cloth, as real and as layered as the scent of the sea, but unique, and somehow even more compelling in its elusiveness. Trying to seem natural about it, he buried his face in the towel and inhaled deeply. Where had he smelled this before. . . .?

_On a PADD, in my office while grading essays. . . on a cup of tea during a practice session. . . on a stylus left on my desk for three days during a class-wide simulation. . ._

_Illogical. You are imagining things._

He folded the towel and re-settled himself in his chair, very carefully replaying every memory of those few minutes of crisis.

Thirty seconds later he had figured out who it was that had unobtrusively draped the towel around him, and he had also concluded that Cadet Uhura was not only safe, and alert to the needs of the group, but that she wanted her privacy as well.

Taking another deep breath of the inimitable sea air, he decided that she deserved it.


	4. Fire

_"Words are only painted fire; a look is the fire itself."_

\- Mark Twain

* * *

=/\=

* * *

**Fire**

The nights were the worst.

During the day he could at least pretend he was here for a purpose, but enduring the cadets' most illogical and distinctly uncomfortable obsession with partying all night left him in a Vulcan equivalent of a nervous wreck. As he once again herded a group of his charges out of a bar and into a transport back to their hostelry, he slowly blinked and wondered why all this should discomfit him so. For five days he had not slept, but that was of little consequence. Loud music, he could endure. Overseeing up to fifteen individuals in the same room or general area was no over-burdensome task. Wild dancing he could ignore. Messes made mostly of alcoholic beverages mingled with various types of bodily fluids he could avoid - or clean up as the situation demanded. Other inappropriateness he could block out. But watching Starfleet's best and brightest make themselves sick (as he was sure they were doing) grated against his logic so much that he found his patience was coiled into a very firm knot of apprehension and disgust at the pit of his stomach.

There were always five or six cadets who stayed in their rooms all day now - these were the ones who spent every forenoon "recovering" from the night before, and every afternoon planning the next evening's bacchanals, and every night "livening up" the parties. Spock put no censure on these ones, nor lectured them at all, but he had a singularly difficult time reconciling these illogical actions with the inevitable consequences. What possible purpose could a week such as this serve? It weakened the cadet's immune systems, at the very least, and as far as he could tell, their moral fibre as well.

This particular night, many of the locals had been invited to the hostelry, and since there had been a gradual buildup of lights, decorations, sound equipment, and other accessories (so much so that the piles of things had spilled out of the rooms and were now being kept mostly in the area surrounding the swimming pool) and since all these things were here they _must_ , of course, be used, and so the party was quite large, and very loud indeed.

He manged to make his customary circuit of the rooms and general area - thereby confirming the presence (whether they were awake, asleep, or otherwise) of each of the fifteen people under his care. Then he settled into the most underused corner, having retrieved a bottle of lemonade from one of the coolers, and sat back to observe the evening's entertainment, distaste warring with incomprehension in his mind.

When he could no longer stand the sight of the "dancing" he let his eyes wander over to the card games and conversation occurring on the periphery. McCoy seemed to be winning the day at one of the tables, for he had a large cigar lit and between his teeth. Gaila was sitting near one of the local young men. . . though he doubted that what they were doing could be labeled "conversation". He sighed a little. That was the Orion way, so the girl must know what she was doing. . . he hoped, at least. Sulu and Kirk were dancing and drinking by turns - they crossed Spock's line of vision once or twice, but all of a sudden his attention was directed to the one table where nothing at all seemed to be happening.

Three girls, Cadet Uhura among them, were sitting and talking and laughing and stirring their brightly colored drinks, and paying no attention at all to what was going on around them. All three of them were noticeably intoxicated, but not excessively so. The chaffing and joking, giggling and jesting all seemed quite normal, and realistic, if exuberantly unrestrained.

Then she turned, and after a moment of searching with her eyes, looked right at him.

It was a happy look, gentle and open. Her eyes were welcoming and her smile understanding. She seemed to know he would not be enjoying any of this activity, and with an innocently inviting tilt of her head she offered him the companionship of her table.

And suddenly, he understood.

All this activity. . . it was not illogical. . . it was a forging. A smelting away of illogical impulses, a shaking loose of the hard buildup of irrelevancies, and a good clean sweating out of every emotional paradox. It was a deeply empathic, communal form of cleansing, and she wanted to share that with him. She wanted him to share that with them.

But he could not.

Finding that at last he understood the meaning of these things forced him to once again address his difference - who he was - and it was not who these people were. They were none of him, and he was not of them.

_Different - it is_ _**too** _ _different. I cannot do this now, or I will lose myself._

With one look in her direction, an expression in his own eyes that he hoped she understood, he removed himself from the room.

They would voluntarily confine themselves to the hotel rooms for this evening, he felt sure. This party would not be over for some time. He could have a few hours of freedom.

For the first time in his life, he wandered. Up and down the coast he walked, a few miles one way, a few miles the other way, slowly, with no sure destination, until he found himself on "their" beach in a small cove he had not yet had the opportunity to see. He would not see it now. This place was at least somewhat familiar, so he closed his eyes, and tried to balance himself.

The beach was nearly deserted at this time of the night. He slowly inhaled to his lung's full capacity, and then let out the breath in twelve measured beats. The tension drained out of his system as he repeated this exercise. Five times, and he had regained his center of balance, but not his inner peace. Opening his eyes, he spotted a small driftwood campfire and made for it like a man lost in a wilderness who has finally seen a landmark he recognizes.

Dropping to his knees - in exhaustion or supplication he could not determine - and he reached for the small pouch he always kept in his pocket, measuring a small amount of the potent incense into his palm. Casting the powder into the still softly flaming coals, he let the sharp familiar scent overtake him, and he narrowed his vision to the flames, narrowed his thoughts to remembrances of quiet and peace, narrowed his existence to that one small area of flickering light. . . he was so deep into a meditative trance so quickly it did not occur to him that he would not sleep tonight either, nor did it matter - he would not be able to sleep soon in any case.

Even from across the room, that look of Uhura's had marked him, burned right past all his shields and _marked_ him, as though she had somehow gained psi abilities, reached into his mind, and scribed her signature onto his _katra_. Unless he could lose himself in the paths of meditation, it would become all he could see, for days, waking or sleeping.

The incense smoldered as the fire burned low, and dew began to collect on the ring of cold stones - and also on his clothing as he sat, utterly immobile.

Yes, nights were definitely the worst.


	5. Water

_"Nothing is softer or more flexible than water, yet nothing can resist it."_

\- Lao Tzu

* * *

=/\=

* * *

 

**Water**

The hostelry was eerily quiet at 0500. The pounding music had stopped, the raucous laughter had ceased, all the clanking of glasses at the bar and splashing of bodies in the pool had given way to the strange, tense, almost _enforced_ quiet of what Spock termed only as "the aftermath". The dull roar of the ocean was at last audible from inside their rooms - it swished through the open windows, haunting the scene with a sort of distant, aristocratic disdain. That sound would be here long after everything in this room had been doubly forgotten.

Spock pointedly did not look at anything below his eye level when he re-entered the hostel - the past few days had taught him that much, at least.

He slipped silently past a few sprawled bodies in the hallway, and took the stairs up to his room, sure that the lift would not be in a pleasant state either.

His night of meditations had calmed him somewhat - and today was the last day of Spring Break. Soon, this all would be over and forgotten. . . doubly forgotten.

Except. . .

He deliberately did _not_ think of Cadet Uhura.

Twenty minutes later, he noiselessly left the hostelry again, dressed in his running gear.

Dawn over the Pacific was something to witness, he had to admit, even when the greater percentage of one's attention was focused on proper exercise, and most of the rest on a particularly intricate ka'athyra _étude_ one wished to learn.

The colors of the sky and the motion of the waves were so striking that, in fact, after no more than an hour, he found it necessary to remove his earpiece, and slow to a walk. There was something about the experience. . . the red rising sun was like a meditation flame, backlighting the hills with a tapestry of fire. And behind him, the ebbing tide, breathing in rhythms too old to know, gave more of an impression of silence than actual silence could have done.

All at once, his mind, body, bio-functions, and even his _katra_ , righted themselves, and he felt no strain or discomfort of any kind.

After a night - nay, six whole days - of struggling to find any peace, strange that it should come upon him so suddenly and unexpectedly.

He looked down at the sand, simultaneously confused and exhilarated. Perhaps it was this unexpected state of mind that prompted what he did next, he could never say for certain, but before he could think about what he was doing, he had spotted a small piece of debris in the hissing foam of a wave, and bent to pick it up. It was a shell, broken, but still pearly in the inside, and crusted with still-wet sand on the outside. Strange. . . its genus and species did not at this moment occur to him, though he must know them. . . at this time, such knowledge did not seem to matter. With a flick of his wrist, he sent the fragment flying over the receding surface of the water, noting with satisfaction that it skipped twice before being lost in the waves.

He continued to walk, slowly, along the wave line, occasionally stopping to investigate when some shape or color caught his eye. And still, none of his encyclopedic knowledge of these fragments of sea life came into his mind. Only sporadic, illogical nicknames he must have heard once or twice from his mother occurred to him, like 'kings crown', 'angel wings', 'chinese hat', or even 'cat's paw'. He did not mind. He was free of any tension and all burdens for the moment. The Human part of his psyche must be in greater control of himself for a time. He did not care. It was just as much himself as the Vulcan part.

And the ocean told no tales.

He had crouched down to brush the sand off of what looked like a perfect 'sand dollar', when at last this casual treatment of his morning exercise caught up to him.

A wave, much larger than the waves had been for the past hour and half, broke a mere meter away from him, making him jump up to save his running shoes from being soaked. He hastily leaped into a small cove in the low cliff which rimmed this stretch of beach.

As he landed, just out of the wave's reach, there was a flurry of sand and a sharp "Ow!".

For an interminable half-second, Spock was entirely thrown off guard. Time slowed to an absurd crawl, and he caught the soft-backed book which had apparently been tossed up in shock by the surprised and slightly bruised cadet beside him. It occurred to him that he had only rarely observed someone reading from a real paper-bound book, and he had _never_ seen anyone read " _Candide_ " in the original French before. The vernacular of Voltaire's day was singularly difficult to understand in the 23rd century. . .

His Human ease had fled, and his Vulcan demeanor rushed to the surface.

"Your pardon, cadet," he said, and even to himself he sounded cold and unfeeling. Unapologetic. "A wave surprised me. I hope you are unharmed?" He brushed the sand from the book and handed it back to her.

_She is entirely unique. . ._

Cadet Uhura nodded, shaking her hair and brushing off her arms and legs to free them from the liberal dusting of sand he had inadvertently covered her with. She hid a wince as she straightened the sandal on the foot he had landed on. He repressed the desire to cover her ankle with his hand and use a Vulcan technique to ease the pain. To do so without her permission would be . . . _indecent_. . . and to _ask_ for her permission would be. . .

_Indulgent._

_And illogical._

"I. . . I'm all right Sir," she said, shakily, more in surprise than anything else, "Wh. . . what are you doing out so early?" She held the book to her stomach, crossing her arms in front of it.

"I might ask you the same question, cadet," he said, attempting to make the slightest dent in the wall of Vulcan reserve that had all at once enshrouded him, "From my observations last night, the party ought to have left nearly all the cadets unconscious." Illogically, he wished he could soften his tone.

She smiled; ruefully? Accusingly? Apologetically? He could not tell.

"I left early, Sir," she gave him a look that said clearly - _just like you_ \- "I wanted some quiet before returning to the Academy."

She looked away, and out over the expanse of the sea.

_If I say something that surprises her, she may look at me again._

"I. . . am beachcombing." There, his voice was less hard. Admitting to an illogical act must have made his tongue remember it was half-Human.

She whirled, her eyes wide, " _Really_?" She smiled, a simple, happy smile, "That's so. . ."

"Human?"

She laughed a little, "Well, I was going to say _normal_ , but I guess _Human_ means the same thing, in this context."

He straightened his shirt, preparing to leave the cramped alcove, and resume his walk. He gestured, very slightly, "Will you join me?"

A dozen different emotions he could not identify flicked across her features. She took off her sandals and stowed them with her book in a small carrybag he had not noticed until this moment. Then she slid down the embankment, running towards the water, and grinned over her shoulder at him just as she met an oncoming wave that splashed and hissed around her knees.

_She is like the water._

His eyes followed the fractalized rim of foam that had just encircled her body.

_She is unexpected, yet, necessary._

She laughed as the water fell back, and she leapt a few meters away to capture some small treasure from the sand.

 _She is emotional_ _**and** _ _logical._

Then she came up to him, and presented him with a perfect shell of a small sandcrab. He took it, careful not to touch her in the process.

_She is everything I want. And then some._

"Thank you, cadet."

She laughed at his serious tone, a sharp guffaw that came up from her stomach. . . then she stopped, sobering abruptly. A look came over her face that he could not afterwards describe, but in the moment it made perfect, beautiful, delightful sense. "Sir, we are alone, walking on the beach. Could you call me Nyota?"

He traced the line of her cheekbone with his eyes. "Only if you call me Spock."

She grinned, instantly back to her normal joyous state, "Certainly, Spock."

She half turned then, and began to walk down the sand, just inside the wave line. He took a long step to keep up with her, then immediately reigned in his stride. Nyota was tall, yes, but not as tall as he was, and her stride was quite conservative in comparison. He was, however, determined not to lose his place by her side, regardless of what modifications he must make to his natural pace of walking. His only concern was that he greatly desired to stay outside the wave line, for salt water was a highly inadvisable medium in which to soak his specialized running shoes.

For several dozen meters, they walked silently along together, the drying foam of the high wave point unfurling between them.

It was interesting, both as a fact, and as a metaphor.

There would always be lines between them, even when they were in harmony. They were two distinct beings, from two different realms - there was no way to deny it, or even to diminish it.

And yet, the fact that harmony was _possible_. . . that was the great thing. The _essential_ thing.

There rose in him a great desire to touch her; fingers to fingers, lips to lips, skin to skin. To run his hands over her meld points, her slender neck, her. . .

 _Kroikah! That is_ _**enough** _ _!_

He chided himself for such thoughts. Not only was she currently his student, she was a fine, ambitious, brilliant woman in her own right, and there was no chance any attentions of his would be received as anything but disruptive to her plans.

He ought to leave her be. . .

He put his feet down in time with hers, steadily walking the wave line.

"There isn't anyplace better than the beach for walking and thinking, is there Spock?" She looked up at him sidelong.

"Indeed." He clasped his hands behind his back - the better to keep himself from taking her by the shoulders and kissing her until neither of them could breathe. . .

" _But_ ," she sighed, "you must not let that fact proceed to the point where you convince the woman you're walking with that you simply don't want to talk to her."

He blinked. "That was not at all my intention. You have my apologies, Nyota."

She laughed briefly, looked at him, then looked out over the water. "The sea always makes me think big thoughts too. Too big to be spoken, sometimes."

"Quite."

"There's a sort of enchantment in the ocean, don't you think?"

"I do."

She looked back at him, curious, "Do you have anything like it on Vulcan? Culturally, I mean - I know you have oceans."

"We do indeed - but they are not like this." Thankful for the distraction from his unwanted intimate thoughts, he composed himself for coherent, intelligent discourse. "Besides being far shallower in general, our oceans cover much less of Vulcan's planetary surface area than do Terra's. Additionally, we have no moon, and a fly-by from T'Khut occurs only once every three years. Given only the solar tide, our bodies of water very rarely display such dramatic wave formations as these." He gestured out across the water. "Add to this that the population of our underwater based ecosystems are also far less, and the mineral composition of Vulcan's crust is dramatically different from Earth's, and you can understand that even the smell of the wind off the water is a completely distinct experience on my homeworld than it is here."

"I'm sure it is," she said, sounding interested, but not entirely satisfied with something, "But what I meant to ask is - is there anything in Vulcan culture that _compares_ to our oceans? Anything that a Vulcan can. . . well, I suppose "feel" is the only word. . . _feel_ about the same way?"

He inhaled, and stopped, turning to fully face her. . . and the sea. A soft morning breeze slipped past them, ruffling the water, the foam, his hair, and pressing her loose tank top briefly against her belly and breasts. . . "Yes," he said, almost hastily, to bring his mind back from where it seemed it was _insisting_ on going, "The sand. On Vulcan, the desert occupies a similar cultural position as Terra's oceans."

"Really?"

"Indeed. In point of fact, it is logical. The dunes move in wavelike currents, with the wind. Far slower than in the sea, of course. . ."

"Of course," she said, smiling, and turning to continue their stroll, "But do you have 'sand boats'?"

"We do."

Her eyes lit up and her face seemed entirely covered with her wide smile, "And 'sand sailors'?"

He nodded.

"And 'sand pirates'?"

"Yes."

"And legends of 'sunken treasure'?"

He nodded again.

She laughed aloud, "Oh, _that_ I have to hear!"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Oh, come on," she lightly punched him on the shoulder, "Tell me the story of the famous Vulcan Bleakbeard and his band of viciously illogical lowlifes, and how they stole some fabulous treasure that was under a dreadful curse and buried in the desert, where no one could ever find it again."

"You do not appear to need me to tell it. . ."

"What do you mean? Of course I do!"

"But you do not. You have just told the essentials of the story."

She gaped at him. "Wh. . . .what?"

"Details notwithstanding, the story you have described _is_ Vulcan's most enduring 'pirate' story. A cruel leader, and his company of thugs, stole a clan leader's most treasured possession, and in the process landed under a curse from Gratan The Spirit-Demon. Subsequently, the whole band, including the treasure, disappeared into the wastes, and was never heard from again."

"And. . . was it true? Did it really happen?"

"It is generally accepted that most of the story is apocryphal. But it has some basis in truth, nevertheless."

"Wait. . . does this mean Vulcan has to deal with hoards of treasure hunters trying to find mythical things out in totally illogical places in the desert?"

"No."

"Oh, goo - "

"We have to deal with archaeologists."

"OH!" she laughed heartily, then shrugged, "Huh. And. . . I just. . . _guessed_ the story! Wow! I had no idea such stories were so universal."

"Despite the majority of both our species continuing to disagree on the issue, it is my belief that Humans and Vulcans are, on the whole, highly compatible. Culturally, morally. . ." he cast his eyes down, "And physically."

"Oh. . . right." She blinked rapidly and was quiet for several steps. "I. . . sometimes forget that you're half Human."

She looked ashamed.

He could not allow such a thing. . .

"Do not "worry yourself", Nyota. Such forgetfulness is a liberty I often wish I had been granted."

"You. . . you do?"

"Yes. It took me many years to realize that the very Human desire to be special and normal at the same time was not forbidden me by Vulcan philosophies - so long as I constantly kept in mind who and what I was. Such self-awareness is not egoism, pomposity, or even snobbishness - though it does at times manifest as a standoffish mixture of all three. It is, in fact, a necessary fruit of my hybrid nature, and the life-choices I have made in an attempt to lead a balanced existence."

She did not answer, other than to give him a gentle smile, and then looked thoughtful for several minutes.

He had never realized before, how elegantly a Human could articulate, using just their facial expressions and body language. He had long known that as a species they were past master at the craft, so much so that most did not even know they knew the language, but he had never before noticed just how _beautiful_ such silent communication could be.

It stunned him, even as it satisfied some part of him he had never known was starving.

He let the silence reign, suddenly comfortable with her presence, and pleased with the view of her, and the morning sunshine on the water.

They walked on, through a small flock of gulls, who were pecking idly at a bed of sandcrabs when they were not giving their keening, lonely calls towards the glowing mackerel sky. A few speckled sandpipers followed in their wake, looking sweet, and delicately elegant next to the larger gulls' heavy, pale, heart-wrenching arrogance. The surf whirled and fizzed, only a few feet away, and once every few minutes, would rise up near enough to them to reach Nyota's bare feet. A few flat pebbles were scattered across the smooth, soft sand, and behind them were the only two trails of footprints the beach could boast this early in the morning.

It seemed forever - or only a few moments - and he heard Nyota sigh - in frustration of contentment he could not tell - before she turned to him, saying quietly, "Don't you think it's time we were getting back? Besides breakfast and cleaning up, we all still have to pack. . ."

"Yes indeed, cadet," he said, his Vulcan severity returning suddenly. He turned instantly on his heel and led her to the nearest way up the cliffside. On the firm, paved track that ran along the clifftop, it was a matter of minutes back to where she had left her belongings, and even less back to the hostel, where they found the rest of their group finally beginning to emerge from sleep.

The entire way back, whatever close comradeship that had suddenly sprung up between them was noticeably absent.

Its loss left him feeling as hollow as seashell.

But. . . perhaps it was not lost, only hiding from the harsh resurgence of his Vulcan reserve.

Despair flowed over him, but it was followed quickly by hope. He was not a passive member of this relationship. He could try, could make an effort, could work towards finding that comfortable place with her again.

As the sprawled-out, hungover cadets slowly began to collect themselves, there again rose up in him a desire to kiss her - but this time he wished to do so here, in the common rooms, in full view of everyone.

He quashed the feeling, of course, but he deliberately remembered it.

She was a breath of clean air, a drink of pure water, a rich store of earth, and a glowing flame of fire. Desiring her was not illogical - it was _elemental_.

And he did desire her.

A great deal.

It was high time he admitted that, even if it was only to himself.

He left the cadets to their hangover cures and packing woes, and decided to meditate one last time before the trip home.


	6. Aether

_"This aethereal, fine-nerved, sensitive girl. . ."_

\- Thomas Hardy

* * *

**Aether**

He removed the sandcrab shell from his pocket, and gently placed it beside his _asenoi_. It rolled for a moment, then settled on its back, forming a tiny, pearlescent cup. He stared at it for a moment, then strode purposefully to the refresher unit to change out of his running gear.

It would be wise to attempt to forget this morning's incident. In its entirety.

Nyota Uhura was a cadet, and currently a member of a class he was teaching.

She was fully Human, and though surprisingly well versed in Vulcan languages, was not capable of fulfilling the role of a Vulcan wife.

_Yet. . ._

He clenched his jaw and forced his mind away from contemplating the possibilities she presented. She was an Ensign, he was currently responsible for grading her scholastic efforts, and she was fully Human and he was not.

All completely logical and forceful arguments why he ought to abandon all foolish thoughts about her.

In less than ten minutes he had showered, put on his heavy satin meditation robe, and managed to pack up most of the few belongings he had brought.

Nothing he did, no matter how useful or logical, could keep images of Nyota from invading his vision. Her smile when he had invited her to walk with him; the coordinated lines of her body as she stooped to pick up the little shell now sitting next to his firepot; the shine on her hair as she had cheerfully handed it over; the musing sound her voice made while she gazed out over the water; how interesting her expression was when she teased him; her subtle, indefinable scent. . .

That scent had fascinated him from the very first day of this Spring Break.

He had found her interesting for weeks - her first day in his classroom had set her apart from all his other students, and there was no logical reason to ignore her unique qualities.

He had found her desirable for nearly as long - ever since she had unhesitatingly supported him in front of a particularly unpleasant colleague (though, she had, in fact, stood up for _all_ Vulcans, not just him), and had taken the insubordination demerit he had been obliged to give her as a result, without complaint.

But that moment, on the beach, with a towel smelling ever so faintly of her, was the first time he had felt anything truly compelling.

He wanted her, and not in the way he observed most men wanting her, which, of course, nearly all of them did, in some capacity. His want was physical, yes, but it held an elemental complexity to it that mystified him, even as it captivated him.

He did not only want to touch her, mind and body, but also to _experience_ her, join with her, _meld_. . .

His heart sped, his hands and ears flushing at the very thought.

He made two fists, and reproached himself.

His hours-long meditations last night had clearly been woefully insufficient.

He knew he ought to leave it be, let everything stay just as it was, but. . .

The look they had shared last night had only been the culmination of many days of interest, while also being an undeniable confirmation of attraction. On _her_ part, not just on his.

And then, today's intimate stroll on the beach had been something more. Something, in fact, that he had never imagined could occur between him and a woman.

Harmony.

Not merely concurrent desires, or moments of compatibility, but actual, mental, _emotional_ harmony.

Had she never shown any sign of reciprocity, his wanting would have remained meaningless, and easily suppressible. But now. . .

He could wait, would wait, but he could not leave it there.

Not when she was suddenly precious, irreplaceable. . .

 _Beloved_. . .

He reached for his lighter-wand, and hastily lighting his firepot, sat down in front of it.

Minute flecks of red and blue, orange, pearl grey, purple and green flickered from the delicate inside surface of the sandcrab shell.

Though he knew he probably shouldn't, he focused on it instead of the _asenoi_ 's flame, and then, with soundless whispers, repeated the only one of Surak's mantras that seemed appropriate at the moment.

"Solektra, Sov, Yon, Masu, Abrukatra,

Ek'aifa nam-tor au't sha-ret sv'i k'wuhli,

Than fupa s'malat kwon-sum buhfik dahsaya-lar."

The rhythm of the words dropped him gently into meditation, the Standard translation of them only briefly distracting him. . .

_Earth, Air, Fire, Water, Aether,_

_All these exist in their own space, apart,_

_Always doing according to nature's perfect divisions. . ._

Many Human cultures were structured upon their medieval understandings of the elements, of which they held to be four - Earth, Air, Fire, and Water. Some of these also proposed a further element, that of Outer Space, or Aether. Much of the enduring Human modes of religion were based upon these four, or five, elemental forces of nature, and given that nearly all Human sciences had their roots in religion, the historical overlap was significant.

In every way, the Vulcan perspective was somewhat different.

To his knowledge, no Vulcan culture had ever considered the natural forms of fire, water, air and earth "elements" in the scientific sense. When the four words appeared simultaneously in text, they were always referring to conceptual, dogmatic, or philosophical ideals. Objects might embody those ideals, but air itself, for example, was not considered to be a singular constituent "thing" that made up the matter of the universe. The chemical makeup of gasses had been part of their understanding almost from the beginning, and this understanding did not come to bear on the ideological issue.

No, "air" was a representative word, when used in a religious sense, as were "breath" and "wind" and "storm", and so on. Historically, what these words represented depended heavily on which Vulcan culture you looked at, for there had been thousands of different tribes and communities before Surak had united them as a people. Even nowadays, there were drastically wide variations in cultural expression all across Vulcan.

However, as a descendant of Surak, his own grasp of the matter conformed with what were now considered fairly conventional views.

"Air" and all words related to it, was a representation of memory, or thoughts in general. A violent storm was a representation of violent thoughts, and a clean, sharp wind represented the poignant sharpness of a sudden smell causing a resurgence of memories, and so on. To Humans this element was ephemeral and impermanent, but to Vulcans it was constant, and eternal. The timbre might change, but the song went on forever.

"Fire" was analogous to the Human concept of "yin and "yang", in that it was considered inherently dual in nature, and representative of the equilibrium of existence. Fire could build up as well as destroy, could aid as well as hinder, must consume even as it created. As such, it was quite different in representation from Human norms, because it was often shown as blue, or cool grey in color, at least as often as it was said to be orange or yellow or red.

"Earth" was perhaps the most complex of Vulcan's ideological "elements", embodying as it did the ideas of Vulcan family, clans, and social connections. Even in this modern era, ownership of land held incredibly complicated personal connotations, and working the land had even more. To Humans, "earth" was considered the strongest, most permanent, most reliable element. On Vulcan, it was the exact opposite - a delicate, tenuous connection to life, as unreliable as clan politics, as temperamental as an unrestrained Vulcan. Controlling it was necessary, but impossible.

"Aether" was the most different from any Human concept, for it represented the mind, the _katra_ , and the purely Vulcan ability for touch-telepathy. To Humans, "Aether" was the element of Heaven, and most often represented perfection. It was the "God element", as it were. On Vulcan, "Aether" was the magnifying glass through which you saw your own imperfections. It might have the ideal of perfection behind it, but in practice it was mortal, flawed, and represented not by ageless heavenly bodies, but by earthly, impermanent ones.

The elements worked in tandem, as concepts, while each being entirely distinct unto itself. And while Humans could undoubtedly understand each one, and might even come to prefer them to Terran ideals, much like his mother had, there was a very basic, conflicting difference in expectations that he could barely see any way around.

Humans, to a one, needed self expression. Individuality, imagination, the desire to be special, yet still accepted into the group, placing oneself as a gem in the midst of a solid setting - all these things were inherent in the Human psyche. And it was not wrong - it merely was who they were.

Vulcans, conversely, knew that self expression would destroy them. Such knowledge was the very basis of their civilization. Occasional strictly controlled venues for it still existed, as a matter of course, to keep the species alive, functioning, and developing, but no single Vulcan's _goal_ was ever self-expression. Even Vulcan artists did not attempt to express "themselves" when creating their works. Put simply, the same concept of _self_ did not exist.

Although, of course, such a distinction very clearly did not apply to him. He did desire self expression - required it, in fact. And his doing so did not result in disaster.

Well, not every time.

Most times it did not. . .

Some times. . .

Well, his friendship with Pike was beneficial.

Several Human curse words rose up in his mind, and hovered there for several seconds longer than it should have taken for him to suppress them.

He shook his head. His Human and Vulcan natures were so constantly at war, it was quite indescribable to him how the two species had always managed to be allies.

His very existence was proof of their compatibility, of course, but the fact of it still shocked him every time he took a close a look at it.

The two species were fundamentally at odds.

Had always been - would always be.

It seemed an insurmountable difference, until one added the final element.

It was "Water" as a concept, that could possibly be used to unite Vulcan and Human cultures.

On Vulcan, it represented emotions, and how transmutable, dangerous, varied and strange emotions were. For Humans. . . he wasn't certain that he knew enough about Human nature yet to be able to make any sort of ideological generalization. But he knew it was the most pervasive elemental thing that meant something to any Human culture, and it wasn't difficult to see why. It was the same on Vulcan.

Ice, water and steam all existed on the surfaces of both worlds, and the spiritual ideals that had developed from them had done so along remarkably similar lines. Purity, growth, blood, understanding, attraction, love, courage, devotion, and power were all ideas that both cultures generally attributed to the "element" of water.

It was a very small, but extremely important "in" for each species to be able to understand each other.

He inhaled deeply, and finally let himself look away from the sandcrab shell. He resettled himself, and focused on the _asenoi_ 's flame.

He felt more a child of two worlds in this moment than he had felt in years. Spelling out the differences between Nyota's species and his own only accentuated the near impossibility of any relationship between them working. . .

_Hold for a moment._

_His_ species. . .

_I am a member of two species._

For so long, his Humanity had been at best an inconvenience, and was to be ignored as much as possible, and at worst it had engendered in him a set of deep character flaws that needed correcting.

_But, what if. . ._

He had struggled his entire life to find a place of balance between his two cultures, while a the same time, he invariably _identified_ as fully Vulcan.

_And yet. . ._

And yet, he had chosen to live on Earth, in preparation for a career in a Human organization, surrounded by Humans every day.

And now, he had to contend with this very real attraction he was feeling for a completely Human woman.

Perhaps it was time he began seeing his Human qualities as strengths instead of flaws.

_Surely, there must be a solution that will create something instead of tear it down, improve life and not depress it. . ._

But beyond a business relationship, there was little chance of anything working. He was Human enough to be able to have success at that, he was certain. After all, he had already managed to navigate a wide range of Human interpersonal relationships without _completely_ failing.

Well. Perhaps they might start with that.

He was entitled to two Teacher's Assistants, and he had not yet chosen any, though he already had received upwards of a dozen applications. Additionally, it was Starfleet tradition to allow the new professors the privilege of asking any member of their classes to be a TA, while the rest of the teachers were restricted to Junior and Senior students. As it was his first semester as an instructor, he was still adjusting to the position, and had considered forgoing one altogether, or at least until he had become more used to his new responsibilities.

But now, he reconsidered.

It could not hurt to ask Nyota. If she said yes, then they had a place to begin. If she said no, then he had been mistaken, and he would accept that and move on.

And until then, he could hope.

_Indeed. . . hope. . ._

The one hour candle in his firepot flickered out.

He rose, and began his preparations to leave this place.

* * *

If the trip down to Malibu had been strange, the trip back home was downright bizarre.

There was none of the rambunctious jocularity that there had been a week ago. In fact, the majority of the cadets were leaning against their seats in almost a catatonic stupor.

Some still appeared cheerful, of course, but there was none of the noise of last week.

Cadets Kirk and McCoy had taken the bench seats near the front, and each had a girl napping under each arm.

Allerson was seated near the back, cuddling quite freely with Gaila and Sulu.

One of the few cadets who sat alone, Nyota was seated near the middle of the hoverbus, a far more contemplative look on her face than the indolent blankness of nearly everyone else.

Almost exactly one half hour into their long flight back to San Francisco, she surprised the whole hoverbus by beginning to sing "Baba Yetu".

"Baba yetu, yetu uliye

Mbinguni yetu, yetu, amina!

Baba yetu yetu uliye

M jina lako e litukuzwe - "

At that point, nearly everyone aboard joined in, in perfect harmony, almost as though they knew the words. . .

"Utupe leo chakula chetu

Tunachohitaji, utusamehe

Makosa yetu, hey!"

Spock could barely keep his attention on the speedway. It only now occurred to him - though he had, of course, known from the beginning - that this group was primarily made up of the Starfleet Chorale group. _Of course_ they knew the words. . .

It was odd to realize this now, of all times.

"Ufalme wako ufike utakalo

Lifanyike duniani kama mbinguni, amina. . ."

He focused his attention down to Nyota's voice and, in his mind, he joined in.

_. . .thy will be done,_

_On Earth,_

_As it is in Heaven. . ._

_fin_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Link to the song - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WxzrUNkBS98


End file.
